


Bliss

by StormyDaze



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A love story of an angel and her paperwork, Angel Sex, Bureaucracy, Crack Treated Seriously, Masturbation, Other, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/pseuds/StormyDaze
Summary: It's Michael's favorite time of day. Paperwork time.





	Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> I enthusiastically support all pronouns for angels and demons, but I had to choose one here, so I'm going with she/her for Michael because a) as a person with a name conventionally identified as male who uses she/her pronouns, I sympathize with others in this predicament, and b) badass ladies are hot.
> 
> Thanks to J for a quick beta and for encouraging me to get this plot bunny out of my head.

It’s Michael’s favorite time of day. Paperwork time. 

She steps into her office and immediately feels tension drain out of her shoulders. She takes a deep breath[1], and the antiseptic scent of bleach and a touch of lemon gives her a little shiver of delight.

Her office is neither spacious nor cramped; like everything in Heaven, it is exactly what it needs to be, no more or less. Nearly everything in the room is blinding white: white walls, plush white carpet softer than a cloud, white bookshelves housing dozens of identical volumes bound in white faux leather[2]. There are no visible light fixtures, but soft white light suffuses the room anyway. On the wall by the desk is Michael’s one indulgence, a framed eight by ten photo of a shiny silver paperclip. Not strictly regulation, but Michael’s position occasionally affords her small privileges.

The desk is a miracle of modern minimalism, sharp right angles and a flat, glassy surface. Michael strokes her fingers over it and shivers, a light flush coming to her face. She sinks into the faux leather swivel chair, which cradles her like a lover’s embrace. The desk is clear except for two shallow boxes. The one labeled “In” in brutal Helvetica is stacked eight inches high with sheets of white printer paper. The one labeled “Out” is, of course, empty.

Michael opens the top right-side desk drawer and carefully removes a gold fountain pen from its case. She uncaps it and places the cap on the opposite end slowly, reverently, quivering in anticipation. She forces herself to lift the first page from the inbox with a defined, controlled motion rather than snatching it up. She has dignity, and after all, she doesn’t want this to be over too soon. 

The first form is a simple requisition for holy oil, already filled out and just waiting for her approval. She suppresses disappointment and signs her name[3], relishing the smooth touch of pen to paper. She feels the wetness of the ink and heat begins to pool in the lower center of her angelic form. That accomplished, she places it precisely in the center of the outbox, where it promptly vanishes, winging its way across Heaven to its appropriate recipient.

The next form is more exciting: a formal request for her analysis on the projected number of incoming prayers next century. Her pen skims across the page, stuttering out strings of precise print. Her breath[4] hitches as she pushes through the report, rocking back and forth a little in her chair. She doesn’t have genitals to stimulate, but the motion both soothes and excites her. When she finishes the report, her face is decidedly flushed. A single stray hair dares to escape her twist.

Next she drafts a memo to the Cherubim, reminding them that flat notes are absolutely not to be tolerated while singing the Almighty’s praises. She draws this one out, leaning into every stroke of the pen, feeling warmth boil up from her core and sparks zip up and down her form. The slickness of the ink drives her wild; she writes with such zeal that a small splatter flicks out of the pen and lands on her finger, and she can’t stop her tongue from darting out to lap it up. She groans at the acrid taste in her mouth, swirls it all around in order to savor it before she swallows.

Reports, requisitions, requests, they fly by under her nimble fingers and then disappear from her outbox, replaced on the desk by the next form or file. Michael loosens a button on her blouse, and then another. She is aflame with passion, filled with holy fire.

The last thing in her inbox is the monthly miracle budget report, and Michael nearly weeps when she takes it in her trembling hands. She spends a moment fingering the smooth paper, permitting herself a small moan as she runs her hands over the neat type. She’s shaking so much that she can barely hold her pen still, but by minor miracle, her handwriting is still perfect as she begins to allot miracles by Sphere, Order, and division. Her breath[4] comes faster now, and pleasure is blossoming throughout her form, but she desperately holds herself back, willing herself to last long enough to see this through to the end. Her signature at the end of the report is a touch sloppier than she would ordinarily allow, but not enough that anyone else will notice. 

Propriety forgotten in her passion, she yanks open the top-left drawer of her desk and pulls out a magnificent white and gold stapler. Fighting through her haze of lust, she lines up the pages and pauses for a second before slamming her fist down on the top of the stapler.

She comes. _Explosively._ Her orgasm rips through her form like a nuclear bomb. For several unending minutes she ceases to exist as an entity, becoming a concentrated orb of pure pleasure shaking through aftershocks too numerous for a human to count. When she coalesces back into a distinct shape, she’s slumped over the desk, head pillowed in the crook of one arm, hair flying in every direction. She sits like that until the shaking subsides.

She cleans up with a casual thought. One miracle pulls her hair back into its correct twist, while another straightens her rumpled clothing and re-buttons her blouse. She places the budget report in her outbox and sighs in satisfaction as it disappears. She carefully places the stapler in its precise spot in the top-left desk drawer. She recaps her pen and returns it to its case in the top-right desk drawer. She surveys her immaculate desk with the kind of pride humans usually reserve for newborn infants.

Michael has an extremely stressful job. It’s nice when she gets to have a little personal time.

**Author's Note:**

> 1Angels do not, as such, actually breathe while in Heaven, but it’s the closest possible analogy for the way Michael perceives her surroundings.[return to text]
> 
> 2Michael detests real leather. Too… organic.[return to text]
> 
> 3Michael’s signature is a complicated glyph that cannot be rendered in Euclidean space, let alone a mere two or even three dimensions.[return to text]
> 
> 4metaphorically[return to text][again]


End file.
